On a Porch Swing
by WeeLittleBeastie
Summary: Random Zoey/Francis fluff. Rating for mild language. Working title; this might possibly blow up in my head into a large and complicated story, but we'll see. Oneshot.


Just a bit of random awkward fluff that popped into my head while I was doing dishes. It's rough and incomplete, because in my head it's already turned into something much larger and more epic, but I can incorporate it into the big picture later. Sorry for any OOC that might be in there. I know Francis is this huge badass that hates everything, but I imagine he must also have a soft, squishy side. *grin* Also, the roommate is based on a real person, who yes, does indeed have a laminated zombie plan in a notebook.

Left 4 Dead characters belong to Valve, not to me. No profit was made by this little venture. Enjoy. And if you review, please be nice. Realize this is not a polished piece, and isn't intended to be one.

**--**

Tonight, she felt utterly alone in the world. Seated on a rain-rotted wooden swing with an AA12 automatic shotgun lying across her knees and the howls of the infected pounding against her eardrums, Zoey looked up at the cold stars, wheeling uncaringly above a world gone to hell, and felt the prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes. She wiped them angrily away with a sleeve and reprimanded herself. She was responsible for four lives tonight; an emotional breakdown was not an option.

Bill had stumbled across the small house quite by accident while hunting down an injured smoker in the trees. The sturdy wooden building was nestled against a sheer rock face and surrounded by a clear cut area that provided good visibility. After spending two hours barricading windows and doors throughout the house, the survivors had settled in what they assumed was the living room and appointed Zoey first watch while the rest of them caught up on some much-needed sleep.

From her position on the front porch of the home, she could hear Louis muttering incoherently in his sleep, and Bill's soft snoring, muffled by the beret over his face.

"Can't sleep?" she murmured quietly into the dark. The response came in the form of Francis emerging from the doorway, taking a seat beside her on the swing. Leaning forward, he folded his hands together, elbows resting on his knees, gaze turned outward toward the encroaching forest.

Francis was an enigma to Zoey; they'd found him in the middle of a horde of infected, efficiently dispatching individuals with a handgun and a grim smile. He'd been reluctant to join their group at first, but Bill was a master manipulator and managed to convince the hot-headed vigilante that he needed them as much as they needed him. And so, with their ranks swelled to four, they'd set off toward a rumored military stronghold in Riverside. The young woman had spent much of their journey observing Francis, but she couldn't figure him out. He didn't seem interested in escaping the infection; on the contrary, he was never more animated, more in his element, than when he was surrounded by infected, covered in blood, and the odds were against him.

Zoey twitched her hand toward her shotgun as the howls of the infected intensified, but they sounded no closer than before, and she relaxed with a heavy sigh. After a moment's silence, she glanced sideways at Francis and smiled ruefully. "I used to imagine what I'd do if something like this ever happened." Her chuckle held no humor, as cold as the wooden swing she was sitting on. "I thought it would be simple, to forget that they were people."

Were, being the operative word in that sentence," Francis replied gruffly, holstering his gun. "Except the shape there's nothing human about them. Not anymore." He looked up, breathing out slowly, so the puff of fog his breath created drifted upward toward the half-moon hanging in the autumn night. "I'm supposed to relieve you. You should get some sleep."

Zoey jerked her head pointedly toward the moaning in the trees. "No way am I sleeping through that racket." Francis simply nodded and returned to scanning the tree line. She let the silence stretch on for several minutes. Finally, she looked down at her hands, swallowing as memories made their way relentlessly to the front of her mind. Flashes, memories, terrible images she wished she could forget. "My roommate," she said softly, "was always talking about her 'zombie plan'. And I made fun of her for it. She had it in a notebook, laminated and everything…"

"Damn lot of good it did her. Everyone makes plans. Doesn't guarantee you survive though." He tapped the barrel of her shotgun pointedly. "This is your plan. It's the only thing you can count on. And this"—he tapped her forehead with his index finger—"this is your best tool. Keep your head, and you'll make it out of this."

"It's my fault she's dead."

Francis pressed his lips together at the show of complete, guilty despair on the girl's face. It was hard for him, sometimes, to believe she was only a few scant years younger than he was. Sometimes she looked so young, so naïve. "And how in the hell do you figure that one?"

"I shot her in the head."

… "Oh. Okay then."

Zoey bit her lip. "I convinced her to go into town, told her I was sure the infected had moved on. We got attacked in the gun shop, and she got nicked; just a shallow cut on her cheek, but an hour later she was complaining that she didn't feel good, and I wasn't willing to take the risk." Her voice cracked and she looked away, and it took Francis a moment to realize that she was crying, her shoulders quaking with the effort to suppress her grief. "The look on her face when she realized what was happening to her, what I was going to do…"

He felt suddenly very out of place. He'd become so accustomed to his role as zombie-slayer, a confident, seemingly indestructible badass, that he was unsure exactly how to go about soothing Zoey's hysterics. But her broken, half-choked sobs rang loudly in the brief silence between the groans of the infected, and if nothing else he feared the strange sound would bring them running. Sometimes he really hated women, dangerously emotional creatures that they were.

Reaching out, Francis patted Zoey awkwardly on the back. "Come on, no use torturing yourself. At least it was quick." To his surprise this method seemed to help, and the awkward patting transitioned into soothing circles. "You made the right choice. Imagine the hours of suffering you saved her from. If she knew what her other option was, then I'm sure she agreed with your choice."

Zoey wiped her eyes again and nodded silently, her sobs quieting into sniffles. Turning toward Francis she managed a tearful smile and chuckled softly, dropping her gaze and shaking her head. "Sorry. I don't know why I broke down like that." Her companion on the swing grunted noncommittally and became suddenly very absorbed in wiping a speck of grime from the handle of one of his guns. The smile on her face only widened as she noted the slight color in his cheeks, and suddenly she didn't feel so lonely after all.

When Bill took his turn as watchman, she followed Francis inside and curled up in the armchair, still grinning as she drifted into her first pleasant dream in weeks.


End file.
